Do you ever find yourself wondering, on a grey day without much sparkle,

 amidst the inward-moving energies of winter,

 about a particular person

 whose anniversary it is?

And you wonder, ‘how old would they be now, had they lived?’

 I’ve stopped doing that with my parents, because it gets a bit ridiculous now that my calculations are going into the hundreds.

But with a little one, it’s different. 
My first granddaughter. She died at 6 weeks old. She would have been 21 today.